


badabing, badaboom

by karples



Category: DCU (Comics), Grayson (Comics)
Genre: Action, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 12:39:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8845441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karples/pseuds/karples
Summary: In which something explodes. Hey, at least it's not Dick's fault.





	

A day in the life--Dick’s got a wire between his teeth and fifteen more tangled up in his fingers. He’s trying to find the right one to pull, and the dispassionate eye of the bomb keeps tick-tick-ticking. Not the New Year’s countdown he’d been hoping for--he remembers scaling Wayne Tower, two years ago, to watch the fireworks illuminate the harbor with Cass and Damian. Their faces glowed red, gold, purple in flickering patches; even Damian’s trademark scowl couldn’t hide his delight, and afterward Cass signed to Dick, _We should do this again, Batman._

They never got the chance, never. And now Dick has an explosive cradled in his lap, a high-strung mercenary-spy on the lookout, and about forty seconds before they’re toast.

“Sooner than later, Grayson,” Tiger hisses, and Dick mutters around clenched teeth, “Ten bucks that this isn’t the real bomb,” before a separate explosion blows the building down like it’s a house of straw.

 _Holy decoy bomb_ , Dick thinks, catapulted backwards; _I’ll be getting that ten after all_. He hits the window with Tiger’s shout of surprise in his ears, and then they’re plummeting toward the pavement.

The nerve endings in Dick’s shoulders fritz out in pain. At least the building was unoccupied, national holiday and all that. So grateful, so blessed. Dick laughs through a mouthful of dust, ‘cause if he’s not laughing, then he’s screaming, and screaming always makes it worse. Learned that as Robin, and _wow_ , was that forever ago--he almost misses the red and green and yellow, but he recognizes that bright colors wouldn’t do him any favors in the spy business. He also recognizes that he’s watching his life flash before his eyes, and that this whole encounter probably qualifies as a near-death experience.

So he fires his grapple gun on instinct, eyes stinging, peripheral vision swarming with insects--no, no, just spots. He makes a lucky grab and catches a thrashing Tiger around the waist--“What _are_ you tangled up in?” Dick shouts over the minor tinnitus, and Tiger pounds him on the back and bellows, “Unimportant! Also, you are _on fire_ , Torch Wonder!”

They land hard on an adjacent rooftop and keep rolling, Dick over Tiger, Tiger over Dick. Tiger’s mouth bashes into Dick’s forehead, and Dick kind of likes him there, teeth imprints and all. That’s so going to bruise. The burns are starting to sting.

“Move out,” Tiger orders, already sprinting. Dick darts a glance over his shoulder; the thing that snagged Tiger was a flag printed with some kind of emblem or insignia. If he could get a better look, he would, but fire’s eating up the fabric faster than Dick can run. Well, there goes that lead.

At the edge of the rooftop, Tiger grabs Dick by the collar and looks straight at him. Not through him, like Bruce on his bad days, and not around him, like Babs after Dick rose from the grave that he sometimes wishes he occupied. Straight at him, intense and searching. It occurs to Dick that they might both be a little concussed.

“Can you make the jump,” Tiger says. Dick stares, uncomprehending; he matches what he heard of Tiger’s voice to what he lip-read, _can you make the jump_ , what jump? Then the rusted spine of a train emerges from the tunnel below them, rattling like the cargo trains back in Gotham, Bludhaven, home, and it all comes together.

The sudden spike of longing in Dick’s chest nearly gives him away. He schools his expression into one of puppy-dog glee, not that puppy-dog glee is far off the mark.

“I don’t know if I should be touched or offended that you asked,” Dick says, leaping. He used to tell Batman that his heart soared whenever he flew, and Batman used to reply, _It’s called vertigo, Robin_ , which was no fun at all. The clang that reverberates through the steel and into Dick’s feet is as familiar as Dick’s own reflection. _Like echolocation!_ he thinks, inordinately excited--the way it feels, the way it makes him feel, the billowing smoke and the humming metal and the wheels on the track. Like he’s been _found_ , like it’s found him, a shape fully realized and discovered in the dark.

Okay, yeah, he’s pretty concussed. Tiger botches his landing, but Dick’s paying attention and hauls him back from a grisly death. Dick’s amazing save gets a stiff nod of acknowledgement. Six out of ten, could use more enthusiasm, but Dick will take it. More importantly, they’re _train-surfing_ , riding the momentum as glimmering waterfalls of dust and glass cascade from above. This just might be the best and least complicated leg of their mission.

Shielding his face from debris, Dick whoops despite himself. Must be something about escaping the jaws of death for the umpteenth time, or maybe it’s the company he keeps. Maybe it’s the way Tiger can’t stop watching him, and Dick doesn't want Tiger to stop.

That’s definitely not going into Birdwatcher’s mission report. Dick crouches low, ducking under the lip of the upcoming tunnel, with Tiger a solid, stable wall beside him. Snapping in the wind, Tiger’s head scarf carries the faint scent of nitrogen and shampoo. It's not the usual standard-issue product, which makes it personal, something rare and special in a sea of literally faceless authority figures. Dick breathes in deep and wonders how much of Tiger will remain in his system when he exhales.

“Stick to Plan C,” Tiger says, the killjoy buzzkilling mood-killer.

“Aye aye, Cap’n Crunch.” The ringing in Dick’s ears has faded away, only to be replaced by Tiger’s indignant silence. “You know, like the cereal brands. Tony the Tiger, Cap’n Crunch--”

“Focus,” Tiger interrupts, planting one broad palm on the back of Dick’s neck. Dick almost swallows his own tongue. “The exit route is approaching.”

Hypnos set to night vision, they wait for the eighth service entrance, cut into the ceiling, to pass overhead. Eventually, Tiger lifts his hand away to snag the lowest rung, and Dick hangs onto Tiger's legs as Tiger drags them up partway. The train thunders along, and Dick tucks his knees close. The entrance only permits one person at a time, which is inconvenient, but Dick doesn’t get to complain, since Tiger’s doing all of the work.

They used to practice the same move at Haly’s, hand-offs on the trapeze and various derivations. The moment of nostalgia rocks into Dick like an EMP shockwave, then passes. Dick catches the first rung, and Tiger pulls away from him, climbing steadily upward. Soon they pass a small ledge, and Tiger rolls onto it, groaning.

“Five minutes,” Tiger says, with great effort. Dick eases himself down next to Tiger. The ache’s sinking in now, and Dick’s heart is pounding in his throbbing ears, his congested throat, the exposed skin on his forearms. The grin hasn’t completely left his face, whoops. On the other hand, Tiger’s frown is as severe as an abyssal ocean trench.

“Why the long face?” Dick asks, nudging him with an elbow.  

Tiger grunts and returns the jab with one of his own. Even top-tier agents aren’t beyond a bit of playground wrestling. “We failed our objective,” Tiger says grimly, regulating his breathing. In response, Dick laughs hard enough to pop a rib. His side tightens up, and--hey, he actually popped a rib. That’s one off the bucket list. If possible, Tiger’s frown deepens. “I fail to see what is so amusing.”

“My buddy, my man,” Dick says, fishing out a flash drive and flicking it at Tiger’s face. To Tiger’s credit, he swats it out of the air without batting a lash. “We totally achieved our objective.”

Tiger examines the singed flash drive. Spyral-grade tech, so it came out of the explosion significantly more intact than either of them, that’s for sure.

“As full of surprises as ever, Dick Grayson,” says Tiger, pocketing the flash drive. There’s a shadow on his face that could be residual ash, beard growth, or one of Tiger’s understated smiles. Personally, Dick’s leaning toward the third option.

“Good,” Dick says, grinning. “I live to entertain.”


End file.
